“Now wait just a minute.” He pushes to his feet, shuffles down the counter, then bends over, hidden from view. “I don’t have any incapacitating agents per se, at least that’s my line for any suits that walk in the door, but I think this is what you’re looking for.” He straightens, lifts a box out, and sets it on the counter. I move closer, glance at the contents while trying not to drool all over the counter.
White aerosol cans. Fifteen or twenty. Lined up in a neat row like jewels in a box. Shimmering under the dim light of the overhead fluorescent. I place my hand gently on the edge of the box, my irritation forgotten. “What is it?”
“Capsicum. It’s not gonna knock anyone out, but will wreak havoc on their senses. Can cause blindness, will definitely disorient someone, give them one hell of a headache, blurs vision, dizziness, pretty much a one-two punch of fucking you up. It’s the same stuff that is in pepper spray, but this is an aerosol form. Set four or five of these in a room, pop the tops, let the mist fill the room. You’ll have about fifteen minutes of knock-you-down air before it’ll start dissipating. Just keep your mask on. It’ll linger in the air for a few hours; even the afterburn will cause your eyes to tear up and your throat to close.”
“I’ll take ’em.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
He tilts his head at me, brown eyes scrunching underneath brows that have never seen the beautiful sharp end of tweezers. “All of them? Who’re you going to war with?”
I don’t respond, reaching into my pocket for more cash. “How much?”
He works his mouth and I can practically hear the inflation rising. “Sixty each.”
“Twenty.” I have no earthly idea what capawhateverhesaid goes for. Have never heard of it. ToothpickDick could be selling me mini-cans of hairspray, my attempt at mayhem giving me one hell of a stiff hairdo. But the price had been tossed out with suggestion, like there is some room to haggle.
“Naw, I can’t do that. Not for all of them.” He works the piece of wood, flipping it straight out, and I wonder suddenly, if I stiff-hand his face, if it will puncture anything important, or just slide down his throat and cause him to hack like a furball-afflicted cat. “Thirty.”
I make one last volley. “Twenty-five.”
He answers by withdrawing a small stack of cans, shutting the box lid, and sliding it across the glass toward me. “Cash. I’ll sell you fifteen.”
“Cash.” I grin, count out four hundred more bucks, and lay it on the counter, backpedaling with the box in hand, not waiting for change.
Then FtypeBaby and I get the hell outta there, gas mask and arsenal in hand.
CHAPTER 82
AFTER TWENTY-SOME HOURS of driving, and one overnight spent in five-star luxury, Marcus reaches 23 Prestwick Place. A small house underneath big trees, the thin lot cozies right up to the neighbors, a fact that sits ill in Marcus’s stomach. Neighbors are a bitch. There is a reason his house sits on fifty acres. Neighbors hear screams. Neighbors report if a naked bitch stumbles out on the lawn with bloody wrists.
This yard is clear. No vehicle present. Now is the time to go in, while the house is empty. Damn the neighbors, damn the daylight flickering through the trees. He parks on the street, a few houses down, and pockets goodies from Thorat’s package: zip ties and a syringe preloaded with ketamine, the veterinary anesthetic that will knock a grown man on his ass within twenty seconds. A grown man fighting, less time. A quick pop of the trunk and his casserole dish from hell joins the party.
He locks the car, his eyes sweeping over the Mercedes’ lines. A little conspicuous. He should have borrowed a car. Rented one. This neighborhood, same as the cripple’s, isn’t the type to host hundred-thousand-dollar cars. Picking his way through fallen leaves, carrying five pounds of mayhem, he watches the house. Dark windows. Empty drive. No one home. More trudging. Over the curb and through the yard, his head forward, like it is normal, like moving around to the back of the house, over a forgotten hose and past the water meter, is routine. He’s pleased to see a fence around the back of the house, the privacy it affords. Lifts his head and focuses. Tries the back door, skips the windows and tries the doggie door. A big one, built for a large dog. Lifts the flap, but a plastic piece covers the hole. A plastic piece that three hard kicks knocks loose. He sets down the dish and examines the opening. Dirty. Made for an animal that licks its own ass. He pushes aside the irritation and shimmies through on his belly. Disgusting yet easy. The best side effect his small stature has ever afforded him.
Dark inside. Silent, his breathing the only sound. No dog. No roommate. Good. He takes a quick tour, retrieves the casserole dish, then gets in position. Settles in and waits.
It doesn’t take long. Less than an hour later, the sound of an engine. He listens, counts the sound of a single vehicle door open and close. The weight of feet on the steps outside. Unhurried, relaxed strides. The knob twitches, keys jingle, and the door swings open. Marcus waits, watches. The man, big with strong shoulders, steps inside, swinging his foot behind him and kicking the door closed without looking, the man’s head dipped in distraction as he sifts through a handful of mail.
Exposed. Unguarded. Perfect. Marcus steps forward, the syringe ready, jabs and depresses it, in one combined movement, into the man’s neck.
CHAPTER 83
NINETY MINUTES INTO the real world, and I am already chewing my nails to the quick. I sit at a red light, the sixteen-year-old kid beside me breaking every bone in his neck to stare at my car. I turn up the radio and breathe. Try to focus on the purr of the car and the pound of a hard rock beat. I need Mike. Mike would tap into whatever world he belonged to, the one that provides fake IDs and paper trails and illegal firearms without hesitation. As it is, I am relying on Google’s version of a phone book, driving around a town I don’t know like an asshole tourist. I have some items. Are they enough? Or am I creating excuses to avoid heading back home? I should go home. Time is short.